Pretty Like A
by VanillaSlash
Summary: Loud nations like America didn't keep secrets; especially from their lovers. That was Canada's premise before he saw America in that skirt. Cross-dressing, twincest


**Pretty Like A…**

_By Vanilla Slash_

So my friend texts me, "OMG, I just saw two hot guys making out!"

So I'm like, "Well where's my picture!"

So she's all, "Dammit, they stopped before I could take one!"

So now I'm not speaking to her. How _dare_ she hog all the yaoi! What kind of friend is this person claiming to be! :O

And thus, a fic was born… Somehow. O.o

...

So, first Hetalia fic FTW! ^o- I'm _so_ in cahoots with those North America shippers it isn't even funny at this point. I'm looking forward to making some more Hetalia love in the future!

**Warnings**: Cross-dressing, twincest. (Don't be an idiot and read if you're not looking to see a boy in a skirt when I'm spelling this out for you _now_!)

**Disclaimer**: I hereby disavow all connections to Hetalia! However, I do own the world. (_Yeah right…_) All objections may be filed with the appropriate people. Thank you.

* * *

"America!" Canada called again, rapping on the door to his lover's house.

Still no answer.

It had been like this for about five minutes and the blond was tiring of holding the plastic bag full of ingredients. It was more towards lunch time than breakfast, but America had taken a liking to crêpes and Canada couldn't help but do exactly what his lover wanted, even when the meal was supposed to be a surprise.

"This is ridiculous," Canada sighed, shifting his cargo around so that he could jam his left hand in his pocket to fetch America's spare key.

"_In case you ever want to come… over," America added unconvincingly. That damn teasing smile gave away the true meaning behind his words._

"_America," the northern twin warned, slipping the key into his bag. They were in a very public park after all and it wouldn't do to jump Alfred in front of so many witnesses... but it was also inevitable if his brother kept his eyes half-lowered just like that._

It became obvious once he was over the threshold that America was not in. Silence was unheard of when Alfred was present, and Canada suspected that the blond managed to be just as loud when left to his own devices. But now the large country-style home was peaceful and still, the drapes all flung haphazardly open to allow brilliant strands of sunlight (the color of America's hair and warmth of his smile) to pour in.

Canada took up residence in the kitchen, familiar with the location of everything in the room from centuries of visiting/sleeping with America. It only took a little looking around to guess that his brother was out shopping, as nothing edible seemed to be in any of the cupboards.

"_There's nothing to cook with!" Canada groaned, attempting to simultaneously open the refrigerator door and pry America's arms from around his neck from behind._

"_Really?" Soft sunshine hair brushed against Canada's chin as Alfred poked his head around to look. The overwhelming scent of fresh water, loamy fields, and blooming wildflowers was almost too much. "Ah, sorry about that. I was supposed to go shopping today… and have coffee at my boss' house! I love talking to that guy, but he's always so busy! He was like, 'Why don't you come over today?', and I was like, 'Sorry, man, but my bro's coming over! He's taking me to bed, and I probably won't be able to walk straight for a while after that.'"_

_Canada, touched by his brother declining what would otherwise have been an enthusiastically welcomed invitation, turned quickly horrified at Alfred's narration. Pinning America to the counter, Canada demanded, "Are you stupid or something! You can't say that to your boss!" It was bad enough that America had let slip to his president that he and Canada were "a thing", but expounding on their sexual habits was a little more than Canada could take._

_It wasn't until the playful little smirk that America wore registered that the violet-eyed twin realized that he had been had._

"_Oh, you are in _so_ much trouble, eh."_

"_Just where I love to be," America purred beneath him._

Canada heard the front door open just as the last crêpe made it off the stovetop. Turning off the burner, Matthew crept into the hallway that led back to the foyer. There really wasn't a reason for his surprise visit except that he liked to see his lover…

The newcomer was closer now; just around the corner, struggling with something.

…and maybe he liked to tease him… just a little.

Ducking around the corner, Canada worked fast, pinning his lover to the opposing wall with seductive efficiency and breathing out the word: "_Amerique_."

A delicate silver butterfly barrette, rose-painted lips, and a soft touch of blush on each cheek.

This was _not_ Alfred.

Immediately the playful trap took a threatening twist. The northern twin shook the intruder's shoulders, his brother's well-being at the forefront of his mind.

"Who are you!" Canada demanded angrily. "Why are you in this house?"

And, more importantly, where was Alfred? It was hard to believe that a human could overpower a nation, and added to that this person didn't look particularly…

_Those eyes…_

"A-America?" Canada gasped.

"Go on, laugh!" his twin squirmed in his grasp, fat tears squeezing out from beneath his lashes, dragging streaks of mascara with them. "You think I'm totally stupid now, right?"

Canada didn't know what to say. Mouth agape, violet eyes took in America's appearance with more attention. His brother's top was red and lacy, his chest flat and form lithe in its caress. The skirt stood out most of all—denim and short, ridding up on America's hips from their struggle and very close to showing Canada whether or not there was lingerie underneath to complete the outfit. And, dear God, those heels made his legs look—

"You shave your legs?" he blurted out.

And then he realized that America was shaking. The legs that were always hidden beneath suit-pants or jeans—and were, indeed, silk-smooth—crossed self-consciously under him.

"S-Shut up!" Alfred ordered, face flushed red. Streaks of makeup dripped from his face, staining his blouse. America didn't seem to notice through his mounting mortification but his lover did.

"America… you look…"

Canada had never noticed how close to the line Alfred was between being beautiful like a boy and being beautiful like a girl; it didn't take much at all to cross it. His brother simply filled his cloths out with so much confidence in his outfits that there was no question that the blond was meant to be taken exactly as he wanted to be taken.

Yet now, with uncertainty and fear of rejection reflecting in his sky-blue eyes, the line became completely burred. Pretty like a boy, pretty like a girl… and then Canada realized that America was simply pretty; no matter what cloths lined his body.

He had paused for a moment too long, though.

"Get out, Canada," America said quietly.

Violet eyes slid back into focus. "Eh—? Wait, Alfred—!"

Heels or no, America was still a global superpower and a force to be reckoned with. With a tremendous shove that had the strength of fifty states behind it, the blond had Canada stumbling backward. Before Matthew could properly regain his bearings, America was pushing his twin out the front door, onto the porch of his large country home that his very first president had built for him, deeply in love with his country, and slammed it shut.

"Alfred!" Matthew banged on the door, an ironically similar position to when he'd first arrived. "Dammit Alfred, let me talk to you!"

"Go away!" The muffled sound of a second door slamming, and Canada knew it was a loss. Alfred had retreated further into the house—probably to the master bedroom—too far away to hear him.

He stayed for another hour, persisting. It wasn't until his cell phone came to life with a call from his boss that the nation abated. Still, he hesitated, staring unhappily at the second floor.

Somewhere up there, his America was crying.

* * *

It took days to finally convince his boss to let him cross the southern boarder to return to America. Taking a leaf from his twin's book, the blond alternately harassed his Governor General and Prime Minister until they conceded to him out of sheer annoyance. And so, some time later, he found himself doing a repeat performance before his lover's house.

"America!" Canada shouted again, refusing to leave.

It had been nearly an hour now, but just because America was acknowledged to be the most infuriating nation on the planet, it didn't mean Canada couldn't be just as stubborn. Out of principle, he had left Alfred's house key at home, vowing to persuade America to open the door out of trust and in the absence of coercion.

"I'm not leaving," he told the door, leaning on one of the columns that jutted up from the porch. "We're going to talk, Alfred! Even if I have to stand here for the rest of my lif—"

"Canada?"

Blinking, the aforementioned nation turned around, gaping in unflattering surprise at his brother trotting up the garden path through which Matthew had stormed an hour ago. He was clutching a bag of what could be inferred to be junk food and dressed sloppily in rumpled jeans and a stained T-shirt.

Canada's spirits sunk a little at the attire—a sharp contrast to Alfred's painstakingly composed outfit from his last visit; blouse carefully pressed and skirt so clean it looked new. The lack of pride in his appearance was disheartening and—

"Wait a minute, you weren't even in the house all this time!" Canada exploded, furious.

Even more unnerving than what he wore was the grin that seemed pasted to his lips. It lacked the usual sparkle that made the entire world seem oh so beautiful, instead looking fake and forced.

"Ah, Mattie, the hero had to get food!" Alfred gasped.

Matthew opened his mouth to yell some more but realized that he didn't want to start this visit with a fight. Instead, he stepped aside wordlessly to give his brother better access to the door.

"What do you want?" America asked casually, unlocking and pushing it open with his foot. The stiffness in his movements betrayed his guardedness.

"To talk," Matthew said firmly, following him into the house and not backing off when the other blond threw himself onto the living room couch. Placing himself on the next cushion, the northern twin expounded on the subject. "You've been avoiding me."

"The hero was busy," Alfred didn't miss a beat. His knees were drawn together as one would do if one was wearing a skirt, but he didn't seem to be aware of the habit.

Canada couldn't tear his eyes away though. "Your president said you haven't been answering his calls either."

A flicker of guilt, but nothing committal. "I was _really_ busy."

"Alfred—"

"What's that?" the American interrupted, attempting to derail the interrogation by indicating the package Canada had brought with him.

Little did he know he'd brought the conversation full-circle.

Wordlessly, Matthew held it out to him. It was rectangular and wrapped without a decorative theme; just a simple tiled pattern that America didn't pause to appreciate as he tore at the paper with enthusiasm that made Canada smile. Ripping the top off of a clothing box, his brother rifled around through the tissue until his grin brightened even more (Canada's heart melted), and he pulled out a length of soft, sky-blue fabric.

Alfred froze.

"Do you like it?" the Canadian asked, fidgeting nervously. His brother had yet to speak.

That seemed to do the trick. Blinking, the other blond gripped the skirt to him, uncertainty in his eyes. "I-I—"

"I saw it in Vancouver," Matthew rambled on, "and I though… well, I though you might like it."

Alfred seemed at a complete loss for words.

"And—" Canada summoned up all his courage "—I though you would look really beautiful in it."

His brother's bottom lip trembled, but he straightened the skirt out over the arm of the couch with care. It was rather short, but it was difficult to tell just _how_ short unless it was on Alfred. The American looked longingly at it but didn't touch it again, inner conflict blatant in his eyes.

Canada exhaled. "Please say something."

"_Mattie_," Alfred finally choked out, and Matthew panicked. The scenario was too similar to last week to be ignored. If he made his brother, who smiled so brilliantly that the sun itself seemed like a poor substitute, cry twice in as many weeks, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"I-I'm sorry, Alfred! I-I just wanted—I'll get something else! I'll get a different one! P-Please don't cry—_mph_!"

His plea was cut off when America threw himself at him, clinging with no intention of ever letting go.

"I never wanted you to know. Never, never, never," America chanted like a mantra, face buried in his brother's chest. Canada wrapped his arms around his lover with a soft sigh, breathing in the scent of Alfred's hair.

"America…"

"I can usually go for longer without doing it," the blond rambled, sounding muffled against the fabric, "but it was just _such_ a nice day and New York _just_ had his big fashion week—"

"America!"

"—so when my boss gave me a day to myself, I _totally_ had to—"

"_America_!"

The southern country jumped as though struck, wide-eyed and fearful of rejection; as though whatever Canada said next would determine his entire self-worth. Sensing this, the northern twin decided to convey his feelings more directly than words could manage.

He kissed America. Every drop of adoration and love that had built up over the centuries of their existences came spilling out. America was pressed flushed against him—as closely and seamlessly as their border. His mouth tasted sweet, but not like sugar; only like America, because there was no way of replicating it or comparing it to anything else.

America whimpered softly as Canada pushed him back to lie on the couch without breaking lip contact. The gentle waves of Canada's tongue lapped at America's shores until the tension had completely melted from the azure-eyed blonde's form, turning him into goo under his twin's ministrations.

When their tongues parted, there was silence. But America couldn't stay quiet for long, and Canada was relieved because he needed the blond to say _something_ to let him know that they were okay—that _he_ was okay.

"I thought you were just going to pretend it never happened," the southern nation confessed, eyes wide and honest and never holding anything back. "That you didn't like that part of me, so I couldn't be that around you."

Canada ran his fingers through the short golden locks, loving their silkiness. "I'll always love you, Alfred. And you never have to hide anything you love from me."

* * *

They stared into each other's eyes for awhile until America proposed that they get lunch, as he was "starving, and heroes aren't allowed to starve!" Unfazed by the black hole anatomically referred to as America's stomach, Canada cooperatively lifted himself off the bubbly blond, offering a hand to pull his lover up too. In the space of three seconds America had accepted, kissed him on the cheek, announced that he was going to get changed, and vanished out the door (but not before grabbing the skirt off the edge of the couch).

Now the talkative nation was standing in the doorway and looking at Canada expectantly.

"Say something," America invited.

There was nothing Canada could say; just gape. The skirt had not been done justice on that mannequin in Vancouver, and that was the truth. On Alfred, the frothy blue material was light and flattering, ending mid-thigh and showing off his long legs that ended in strappy silver heels.

Pulling himself together quickly to avoid another misunderstanding, violet eyes gazed into cerulean warmly. "Beautiful," he breathed with conviction.

A soft smile brighter than the sun lit up Alfred's face and suddenly Matthew, feeling lightheaded, was being dragged out the door.

"Come on! I'm so awesome I'll take you out to lunch!"

Canada laughed.

* * *

Whether America was as awesome he claimed was hard to judge, but Canada had to admit that his lover was really something. They had ended up at a beach café—after he had point-blank refused to accompany America to a fast-food place—and within minutes Alfred had been recruited by a group of children to build a sandcastle.

Shaking his head and unable to tell if the entire situation was due to the unconscious pull that citizens had towards their nation or if America was just good with kids, Canada propped his head up on the arm of the bench.

"Oh, dear! Isn't that sweet?"

The blond jumped, startled at the new voice coming from directly next to him. At some point in his musings an elderly lady that was rather squat but with a warm smile had taken up residence there. Her eyes were on America and the little kids but she was clearly addressing Matthew.

"U-Um," he stuttered because he'd been thinking the same thing.

"Is that your family, deary?" the woman continued on in a slightly loud voice. Her hearing probably wasn't that great anymore.

Canada blushed, uncertain of how to respond. "N-no, ma'am."

"What a shame! With that beautiful young darling!" She tittered. "Don't let love slip away, dear. You've got to hold on once you have it!" She seemed adamant about that.

"Yes ma'am," Canada agreed, not only to placate the aged woman but also because he believed it himself.

"Hey!"

America appeared before them, brushing sand from his new skirt and shaking grains of it from his shoes. "Did you see our sandcastle? Ah, the tide washed it away! What a bummer! Oh, hello!" he added to the lady with a sweet smile.

"You are gifted with children, my dear," she told him.

America laughed. "Thanks! I have _tons_ of my own. They're all miserable little _creatures_, but I love 'em! Are you hungry?" he shot at Canada.

"Starved," the second largest country smiled, pointedly taking America's hand in his. He didn't blame the loud nation for gaping at him for action—usually he liked to keep shows of affection indoors so that if any urges were to crop up…

"How sweet!" the lady cooed at them. "You have fun, dearies!"

"Have a nice day," answered Canada politely, dragging a distinctly dazed America off towards the small beach-side café.

America barely waited until they were out of earshot before swinging their arms experimentally. "What's this?"

"This…" Canada squeezed his brother's hand. "This is just us. Together."

* * *

It was at the very next world meeting that it all fell unceremoniously apart.

"_Mah_, _mon petit Mathieu a une petite amie_!" France cooed in a voice like poisoned honey.

Canada's heart stopped beating.

_It's my fault_, he thought wildly. Confronted with this intrusion into the dream they'd been living for months now, it seemed remarkably stupid that he hadn't said anything to America; he hadn't warned him that wearing the skirt out to dinner last night after the meeting was tempting fate just a little too much.

But he _hadn't_ said anything because America was so amazing and sunny and wanted to see all the latest fashions of Paris. So they'd spent the afternoon and night wandering the streets of France's capital city with America in his favorite skirt that Canada had given him and a delicate bottle-green chemise.

And now France—and everyone else, by the look of it—_knew_.

Hoping desperately that Alfred's face contained the same impenetrable naivety as per usual, the blond turned to his brother.

No, there was still too much French influence in Louisiana; or maybe Canada had stuck his own bilingual tongue down America's throat a few too many times. He had understood. America was deathly pale under his tan, beautiful azure eyes wide and horrified. Before Canada could do or say anything, the doors behind them slammed open, admitting the missing Arthur.

He looked furious.

"America, you bloody idiot!" England seethed, storming right up to the North American brothers. Well, up to America anyway, largely ignoring Canada as he yanked the American down to eye level using his tie as leverage. "A _skirt_? What the hell were you _thinking_! I didn't raise you to achieve this level of embarrassment! Idiot!" he said again, thumping the blue-eyed nation over the head with a stack of thick files.

"Did it ever occur to you," the man went on, "that this is just as terrible for me? What do you think people are _saying_ about how I've brought you up—!"

"Now, now, _Angleterre_," France chastised, lowering his eyelids at the twin nations centre-stage and their irate former-guardian. "_Oh lá lá_, _Amerique_, I never knew that your legs were so _très_ _magnifique_. Perhaps we can discuss a future of _improved_ _international_ _relations_—"

"Shut your face, stupid surrender monkey!"

That set them off on yet another episode in their series of arguments, abandoning the shaking nation in favor of an epic European battle.

"This could work in my favor," China commented indifferently from the opposite side of the room. He eyed America like the blond was a horse up for auction. "You still have a big debt to me, you know. It's obvious you'll never pay it back the conventional way, so…"

"Stop talking, stupid Opium bastard!" England dropped France without fanfare to shout. "Just because he's an indecent idiot, I won't have you taking advantage of him!"

"How are you going to stop me?" China asked curiously. "All it would take is a discussion between our bosses. The debt is so large that I can ask for really anythin—"

"He was _my_ colony! Not your _whor_—"

Too much.

A strangled hitch of breath and then America was out the door, tugging off Texas along the way to scrub viciously at his eyes.

"America!" Canada shouted upon finally finding his voice, preparing to rush after him. What kind of lover was he, letting people walk all over his boyfriend? The whole room seemed to start as they realized that someone was left standing next to England.

The Briton himself looked slightly uncertain, but stubbornly clung to his scowl. "Silly American. Dramatic as usual."

He snapped.

Red. Everywhere.

And for the first time, no one forgot Canada; England least of all due to his own sheer misfortune, as he stood closest to the northern nation who delivered a powerful punch to his jaw.

The room exploded into chaos.

It was only when the door finally slammed shut that all the noise made sense. Feliks, who looked uncharacteristically murderous, was shouting as loudly as Matthew. His eyes on America had been filled with hope and admiration, but now clouded with anger and tears.

They shouted the rest of the world down together, turning the oldest nations into _children_, and rotten ones at that. They kicked up such a storm and threw such a fit that it was a full hour before Canada was banging on America's hotel room door, demanding to be let in. And by the time he'd fetched the spare key that his brother had given him, it was too late. The drawers were empty.

America had retreated home to lick his wounds _without_ _Canada_.

* * *

Canada had checked everywhere.

He'd checked America's house and the houses of his surrounding children. He'd asked every state he had the telephone number of, and they'd all been as perplexed and worried by the news of America's absence as he was.

Canada had checked everywhere.

Except…

"Mr. President, I'd really like to see him," Canada murmured, eyes fixed pointedly at a spot above and to the left of America's boss' shoulder.

He could feel the man behind the desk survey him carefully. It didn't matter how often it happened—once every four years, at least, but usually twice as often—but whenever America switched bosses, something of their _international relations_ always slipped out.

Finally, the American president spoke. "I'm sorry, Canada, but Alfred has asked me not to let anyone see him today." Brown eyes offered their sympathy. "He seemed very… distraught."

The blond bowed his head, strands of hair obscuring his face. "I… did he tell you—?"

The chocolate-skinned man leaned back in his chair, focusing on his folded fingers thoughtfully. "My wife mentioned him saying a few things. He was crying quite a bit by the time she tucked him in. He's in his room now."

_His room…?_ Matthew stared. Of course; the room that Washington himself had built for Alfred for use when it was too dark to send the sweet blond home alone. But if the president was telling him this… was he _helping_ him?

The current president smiled disarmingly. "Well I've said my part. I'm sure you'll find the door just fine on your own… The exit, I mean," he added unconcernedly.

_Yes, he's helping._ "Um, yes, Mr. President. It was nice seeing you again. I-I'll show myself out, eh?"

"_Au revoir_, Canada…"

* * *

"I _don't_ want to talk about it," America said sourly.

"Okay," Canada answered. They were curled up on America's bed in the guest room. It had taken some serious insisting to get past the door, but after that, America couldn't drag him into bed to cuddle fast enough.

"I asked my boss if I could be isolationist for awhile."

The memory of a revolutionary America clinging to Washington like a child as the beloved president announced that they would have nothing to do with foreign conflicts flickered to the forefront of his mind. "What did he say?"

America pouted. "He said no. He said I couldn't let the other nations push me around."

Pressing a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, Canada couldn't help but compare that advice to what a parent might say to their bullied child. "He's right, you know. You can push past this."

"But it… hurt." Blue eyes pled for understanding. "It was like… they saw my heart, and they didn't like it."

"Hey." The northern twin pushed his brother's chin up with two fingers. "Your heart… it has a few cracks in it, sure, and maybe you could wear it on your sleeve a little less, but it is so very _magnifique_. Please believe that."

Slowly, America nodded, and Canada knew that that was the best he could hope for when his twin switch the conversational tract.

"So, what were people saying when I…" America bit his lip. "When I left?"

"Feliks wants the two of you to be 'best allies.'"

America laughed. Canada's lips curved in satisfaction.

"What did you tell him?"

"I said the position's taken." He pressed his lips to his brother's.

Alfred hummed. "I was always a little jealous of him."

"Of _Poland_?"

"He was always allowed to wear skirts and things," America muttered restlessly. "And everyone would just be like, 'Oh, it's _Feliks_.'"

"You can wear those things now…"

America paused. "No. I can wear them in front of my people and I can wear them in front of you." Decisively: "I don't _want_ to do it for anyone else."

"You forgot my people." Canada pulled his fingers through America's blond hair. "If they can sense even a fraction of what I feel for you, you'll be safe in their care."

America bit back a grin, clinging to his lover. "So… what else did he say?"

Canada tilted his head in thought. "Well, he mentioned he'd always wanted to go shopping in New York City and Los Angeles with you, but knew you'd find it 'un-awesome'."

Blue eyes lit up. "I love shopping! And… when I'm in my own cities, the sales people are really helpful. I can try on whatever I'd like because, you know, there's that thing in their head that switches on around me that's like, 'Hero-alert!'"

"Your people will always love you, America."

Hesitation. "What about you?"

Matthew's eyes fluttered shut. "Mmm, our people are always changing, America. They grow old, they die… but I'll live as long as you. Your people don't know it, but they want to take care of you. That's why they come running when you shop. But they can't do that forever, so I'll take care of you when they can't."

He felt America touch his hair gently.

"I wish our border didn't exist," America whispered.

Canada's eyes slid open, warm and affectionate. "I love you too."

* * *

Ah, North America. You are my favorite geographically-correct pairing! (_Swoons_)

؏Aurora

Update: Ah, I love you all, for seriously! XD Thanks for all the feedback, including the anons of the world (one of which mentioned that I should consider posting this on the Canada/America livejournal community, which I am miserably unfamiliar with and seek to associate myself with post-haste! If anyone knows anything about it, I will cling to you like a drowning cat... or something O.o)! I just realized that I forgot to translate something for you lot:

_mon petit Mathieu a une petite amie - _my little Mathieu has a girlfriend


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